And Scars Fade
by Draconicality
Summary: -He had equal chances of being lost in the paperwork shuffle and let off easy, or being lost in the paperwork shuffle and stewing here until he rolled over and died from boredom.- Not all goes well for Dearka after the war. [Yzak x Dearka, pre-OVA]
1. Sitting Here In Limbo

**And Scars Fade**  
  
_Sitting here in limbo  
Waiting for the dice to roll  
Sitting here in limbo  
Got some time to search my soul...  
  
**(THREE DOG NIGHT)**_

_   
  
one:_  
  
Dearka hadn't thought he'd ever have cause to compare the ZAFT and Earth Alliance prison cells, but now he'd experienced the latter, and, less than twenty-four hours after GENESIS' destruction, found himself stuck in the former. Now he could safely say that the two held little that was not the same. So far, all he'd found to differentiate them was a noticeable lack of cute (albeit possibly homicidal) girls to serve as his jailers.  
  
Well. Even if there were any, the chances of his seducing his way to freedom were pretty much nil. If there was one thing Coordinators really were superior to Naturals at, it was in the choosing and training of soldiers who actually acted like _soldiers_. And such people were not likely to allow a potential traitor out of his restraints unless ordered to by the higher-ups.  
  
Heh. 'Traitor.' It was such an ugly word, but he supposed that he deserved it in their eyes. Someone who had been set free to return to his own people, and yet had run back to fight for those who had shot him down in the first place, all because of some strange...inexplicably right ideals he'd gotten into his head, beliefs that he'd done and continued to do the right thing in his circumstances...  
  
In the end, at least he hadn't had to claim responsibility for belonging to the side that had initiated nuclear attacks on innocent civilians. Or even the side that had called upon the awesome, brutally terrifying force of GENESIS to reduce a chunk of the Moon to space dust, and uncountable lives in the process.  
  
No. He just had to deal with punishment for having taken the middle road and being, well, relatively innocent, if that word could be applied to him at all.  
  
The dark-skinned teenager rolled over, contemplating the slight dents and variations of gray that made up the ceiling. He'd had nothing else to do for hours now, counting all the little details around him until he knew he'd see the jail block in his deepest dreams; thinking of the world outside, and whether or not he'd see it again. The military came down hard on those it viewed as turncoats and deserters, but with the confusion that had ensued after that last fateful battle in space, he had equal chances of being lost in the paperwork shuffle and let off easy, or being lost in the paperwork shuffle and stewing here until he rolled over and died from boredom.  
  
He wondered vaguely what had happened to everyone else. Maybe they were all right and safe somewhere, in their homes. It was a bit much to ask for – he'd seen the remnants of too many ships and mobile weapons to stay optimistic, but the Archangel had survived, and no doubt Lacus Clyne's Eternal as well. So he could hope that _some_ of them had made it out all right.  
  
_Click. Hssssss._ The door at the far end slid open, spilling a shaft of brighter light into the corridor. Dearka pretended to ignore it, though he shifted back onto his side, curiosity sharpening as shadows stretched and darkened in the strip of light– two people were there, and it didn't sound like either were prisoners (he'd given hell when they'd dragged him down here, and there'd been plenty of yelling. Not many people chose to go quietly.)  
  
He vaguely recognized the voice of one of his regular guards, the dark-haired, vaguely Asian one who he'd kicked in the gut thrice. Dearka had seen a bright red pimple on his chin when he'd last brought the tray of tasteless 'prison rations' and nicknamed him accordingly.  
  
Pimple moved forward into his field of vision, nodding and whispering to the man? woman? behind him, who answered in mild, if practically inaudible tones.  
  
"You have a visitor, Elsman," Pimple remarked, before nodding once more and turning away. "Five minutes."  
  
And then who should walk in, but one Athrun Zala: fit as a fiddle, normally dressed, and apparently unfettered and free. The blonde nearly choked on his own spit. _Who-how-what the BLOODY HELL--???_  
  
"Good to see you too," the other soldier remarked sarcastically, folding his arms and meeting the violet glare from behind the bars with one of his own, as if to say, 'get over it, man!' "And before you ask – no, they're not going to let you go yet." He must have noticed the slight slump of Dearka's shoulders as he heard this, because he quickly added, "But there's a good chance they will."  
  
"Oh?" The tanned pilot couldn't help but look skeptical.  
  
"Look, Dearka," Athrun told him frankly, aware that there were cameras hidden within cells – probably sound filters too, for that matter. He'd have to word things carefully, and quickly. Five minutes was ridiculously short, even though only the string-pulling of the Joule family had managed to get him down here for any length of time. "Let's just say I'm not inside a cell like yours now, because ZAFT still needs good soldiers to protect the people." He was telling the truth...the beginning of peace negotiations between the two sides had not stopped the attacks of Blue Cosmos forces on Coordinator innocents. It was an ill time for the military, who was charged with stopping them, even though their own ranks had been decimated to almost nothing. "We earned the red uniforms we wore for a reason, and that _will_ work in your favor."  
  
"Not in front of a judge it won't." Dearka shifted mulishly, sitting up on his bunk so he wouldn't have to confront his...peer? coworker? dare he call him friend? facing sideways. "I already _told_ you what happened!"  
  
"But you didn't tell anyone else." Things could be reworded; events could be twisted. There were no witnesses who would provide an obstacle. "And it wasn't as though we turned completely against our own—"  
  
"Dammit, Athrun, we fought our former commander!" His expression bordered on cold anger now. "We fought ZAFT ships, not just the Earth Alliance. We fought ZAFT mobile suits. I ended up shooting at Yzak, Athrun. _Yzak_." And strange that that one fact disturbed him more than all the rest, strange that the sting had gone a little bit deeper when the silver-haired hothead had opened his mouth to brand him the enemy.  
  
"Yzak is one of the people working to get you out of here."  
  
Silence. A long one.  
  
"How is he?" Dearka burst out at last. He would have flung his arms up for emphasis, but for the metal cuffs that constrained them behind his back. "You owe me that much, Athrun!"  
  
"He, um, asked me to give you a message, actually." Athrun tapped his chin in thought, a small smile forming on his lips. Dearka looked about ready to explode before he spoke again. "Or rather, he cursed about it for awhile, then he said, 'Tell that bastard not to get his sorry ass busted before I pull it out of jail and do the job properly.' Something along those lines."  
  
"Thoughtful. Very thoughtful." The blonde smirked slightly, anger replaced by thoughtfulness. "Thanks for the news – now I have something to sit and look forward to."  
  
"You do that." Athrun turned slightly towards the door as it hissed open once again, Pimple's shadow beckoning with an elongated finger. "I'll see you soon."  
  
"Athrun? Do me a favor, okay?"  
  
He received an inquiring look.  
  
"Tell him I said, 'likewise.'"

* * *

_Authoress-ramble: This particular bunny hit me so hard at the dinner table that I sat there for about five minutes with spaghetti hanging out of my mouth before Mom asked me to kindly mind my manners. Eheheheh. This one will hopefully be completely finished within the week (two if I decide to be lazy about it) because I'm technically computer-banned (not in school though, MWAH) and therefore wrote the entire outline in my notebook. This was the boring introductory portion – hell, how much action do you get in a prison, anyway? The rest will be better. Promise!  
  
Anyhoo, this is set between the final episode of SEED and the OVA, taking into account that it would have been at least a few weeks for everything to get cleaned up enough to get to the state of things seen by that time. Not necessarily AU either, considering the dirty politics littering the show, and Murrue's statement that "the punishment for deserters is death." I'll fill in the Yzak/Dearka romantic stuff soon, though be warned, this is not going to be too long a fic. My attention span won't handle it._

_Reviews inflate the ego and give luffly inspiration! -points down at pretty blue button-_


	2. Tell Me The Truth

**And Scars Fade**

_I believe we're crossing the great ravine  
Still yearning halfway a stranger  
I believe in our multiplicity  
Still part-blind no reason for anger  
I believe we pull up our roots and retreat  
A new crop of aerials in Dacca and Canberra  
  
Why don't you tell me the truth about you..._

_**(Midnight Oil)**_

_two:_

He never knew he could be bored enough to make his food into artwork before he ate it. And somewhat nice artwork too, considering the regularity of his low grades within the PLANT education system on any subject that grounded itself in abstraction. He really hadn't made good scores on his creative writing either. It wasn't that he disliked it; simply that he'd never had the knack. He could no more produce a bestselling novel than he could sprout wings and fly – all those superior genes and enhanced ability appeared to have moved to the part of his brain that handled logic and mechanics.

Despite his little 'handicap', he might actually have received compliments on his mixed-salad and lasagna model of the Buster Gundam, complete with a beam rifle made of celery sticks. It was impressively accurate. Unfortunately, there was no one there to see it but him, because you didn't get many visitors when you were imprisoned for desertion. Athrun's appearance had broken the monotony nicely, but that had been a week ago (probably. He couldn't tell the passage of time except by his stomach or internal clock, and he didn't keep careful track of how many meals he'd been brought, so he might be a bit off. Rusty had been the clock-watcher, anyway.) Which brought him back to his newfound hobby, which at least kept his hands busy, and his brain occupied with something besides the constant replay of memories. Images of the war, of the twinkling lights of Buster's cockpit, of moving targets and explosions of roseate smoke, of Yzak and Nicol and Miguel, of Commander le Creuset and that strange, sorrowful girl Mirallia...even of Kira Yamato, who he hadn't really talked to but knew was still alive with a certainty that came from all the shots he'd fired and Strike had evaded in the past. Images of Athrun's curious little smile as he talked from the other side of the bars, maddening him with its message of _I have a secret, and I'm not going to tell you!_

Too much. He muttered to himself and ate Buster's celery gun.

What felt like five hours later, the entire meal long since polished off and Dearka long since given to singing Lacus Clyne's pop songs at the top of his lungs in hopes of attracting attention, there was the welcome sound of the door sliding open out of schedule. Dearka paused at his second repetition of "and the stars in the sky," as both Pimple and Bob (named on the basis of his having absolutely no special feature whatsoever) paused to unlock the door, eyed him in a way normally reserved for the criminally insane, and beckoned him out. _Hooray, _he thought sourly to himself. _Something's -finally- happening!_

Neither of the two men seemed inclined to start conversation, either with him or each other, but the blonde found plenty to interest him as he was led through a meandering series of hallways. He'd assumed he was being held in an actual prison building, but rows of doors lined the halls, just as they had when he'd first been brought there, and this time he was able to get an occasional glimpse of offices and conference rooms. They even passed business-suited men and women on occasion, some who raised eyebrows at their awkward group. One (a lady bearing a striking resemblance to Captain Ramius) even gave him an encouraging smile. He realized that he'd been, in fact, held in a very ordinary work-structure in one of the PLANTs.

Not so ordinary, he amended a minute later, stepping into a new room and stopping short before his two guards urged him forward. The crowded office, books and documents piled onto every available surface, did not give the impression of a courtroom. However, the imperious-looking female seated behind the cluttered desk did have a pose and attitude very much like that of a trained judge. She motioned crisply to Pimple and Bob, who saluted and moved back outside before the door could shut on them. Only then did she actually look directly at Dearka, and then it was a calculating jade stare from behind her folded fingers, which were tipped with long, bloodred nails.

She reminded him far too much of a cat, one of the sadistic kind who preferred to swallow their prey alive and squirming, rather than making a clean kill. Even her hair was feline, short and dark and furry-looking. He almost expected her to purr.

"Dearka Elsman," she drawled instead, in a voice surprisingly deep, almost masculine in quality. There were some documents arrayed in front of her, distinguished from the rest by the photos on each page, each one containing his grinning face. "We'd appreciate it if you'd answer some questions."

..._Shit..._

The time after his first day of 'trial' found Dearka resting, almost glad to be back in his dim little prison. It was better than having his brain picked apart by the Catwoman (that is, the scary lady who'd introduced herself as Ms. Hatchett), who was apparently a master interrogator instead of a judge. She'd asked him for details of his capture; he'd given those without hesitation. Questioning about his situation at Orb had him deflecting her with vague answers – he really didn't think "They let me go but I went back anyway," was going to work very well, and he didn't want to endanger himself with an outright lie.

She'd pressed at it, though, interspersed with variations of the question, "and why did you fight for the Clyne faction, Mr. Elsman?" He'd hated that kind of extensive questioning for most of his life, and it had been a struggle not to give the same answers every time. The Catwoman was good at her job, and had driven him frazzled long before he was released back into Pimple and Bob's care.

"Athrun, Yzak," he implored the unchanging ceiling, "I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but _hurry up and get me the hell out of here._"

The second and third days combined to _almost _make Dearka wish he'd never laid eyes on Orb, ever. He was sick of the cell, sick of the hallways, sick of the office and the two guards and Ms. Hatchett with her constant probing on the same points they'd already gone over again and again and again. And as much as he tried to keep himself under control when he wasn't sitting around alone...someone – two someones – ended up feeling the effects.

"Hey, boys!" Dearka greeted them when they entered, couple with the mocking grin that had irritated Yzak most, back in the ZAFT military academy.

It went downhill when they dragged him off to Hatchett's offices for a fresh round of torture – on the path there he kept up a continuous monologue of satirical comments, some which either had them biting their lips to keep from laughing, flushing tomato-red, or outright wishing that they could knock him out. Dearka found it made him feel better, particularly when he caught Pimple making eyes at a couple of the younger ladies they passed and promptly began ribbing them the same way he'd teased Miguel when he found out the young man had had a girlfriend. Except that he was much less sympathetic, since let's face it, they were taking him somewhere very unpleasant and they all knew it.

Bob actually started laughing once they were in the privacy of the lift. Pimple sucked in air through his teeth in frustration, before finally addressing his charge.

"Elsman. Shut up. _Please."_

Needless to say, the blonde nearly doubled over upon seeing his expression. Sadly, the lingering hilarity vanished in the Catwoman's presence, but once it was over and he had rested his brain a bit, it still made him grin a little. Even prison had its own brand of highlights...

On the fourth day of questioning, everything changed.

* * *

_Authoress-ramble: Yes, I'm pulling the chapter's starting lyrics out of my ass. Sorry, Google's. It's a random bad habit of mine to hunt down fitting songs for fics without listening to them first. ; And I promised something less boring, I know --; I tried, really, though it took a real brainfart to come up with a Buster Gundam made out of prison food (XD;) When there's nothing to do, I guess you stretch it to the limits. And did I mention I hate that judge-lady? Even though I made her?_

_I know I made the whole three-day period of Dearka's interrogation WAY fast. It was too repetitive otherwise. Next chapter will be the last, and hopefully the most eventful, because Dearka can finally pop out of that stupid cell block! Yay! And I can put in Yzak and have tons of scenes with gooshy romance! _

_Just kidding. I don't think they work that way._

_the machination/Uzumaki-sama: In all the time I have been writing fiction, yours ranks as one of the best comments I've EVER received on my work! Thank you so much! DreamAnimeKitten: I hope you like this new chapter too =) Yzak: Kwee! glomps Teh Mistress of DeaYza herself likes my fic? I'm honored!_

_Reviews still inspire muchly! :3 –downpoint-_


	3. Hurricane

**And Scars Fade**

_The world moves faster than I knew_

_Not fast enough to not creep up on you _

_And the space we put between_

_So pull me under your weather patterns_

_Your cold fronts and the rain don't matter_

_Because a sunburn's what I needed..._

_**(Something Corporate)**_

_three:_

Dearka had thought he knew what to expect that day, but it turned out to be totally different from the rest. Not that this disappointed him at all, because now he knew why a life sentence was viewed by some people as worse than death. Death didn't take you to the same places through the same paths over and over again, regular and dull. At least he hoped it didn't, because if it did, then he was all for reincarnation.

Three days of being poked and prodded around, and he was tired of the whole business a hundred times over. Really, if Athrun hadn't paid him that visit (how long was it ago now? Ten days, two weeks, three years?) he would probably have done something drastic by now. Like knocking out everyone in the building as soon as he got the chance, or maybe telling the Catwoman that Orb had been infested with rabid hamsters – or Haros – and that he'd ducked back into Archangel because he forgot his collection of Blo-Up dolls. The hermaphrodite ones.

In fact, he noted, slumped down in the uncomfortable metal chair as far as his bound arms would comfortably allow him, maybe he should. Except that her voice and the topic, one they'd already picked over so many times it was amazing that she could find yet more to squeeze out of it today, caused his mind to wander into a pleasant stupor that he was hard-pressed to rouse from. Since his tormentor was busy reading over details, he'd just wait until she asked him another question first...

Someone rapped on the door three times, hard and businesslike, startling him back into proper awareness. Hatchett glanced up from her papers and stood, brushing crumbs off her lap. "Yes? Come in..."

The familiar hiss, and a red-haired man clad in green ZAFT uniform stepped into the room. There was something no-nonsense about his posture and expression that made Dearka want to snap to attention and salute. "Ma'am," he said without offering a greeting, "I'm here as an escort for Dearka Elsman..." He stopped at the sight of the blonde in the chair, obviously consternated. "The order should have been given for his release by now."

Hope jumped to life in Dearka's chest, coupled with a slight foreboding.

"I have received nothing of the sort," Hatchett told him with a small, false smile of curiosity. The lines at the corner of the man's mouth tightened.

"I left it here earlier, as well as a note. Would you be so kind as to check?" Without waiting for her to do so, he moved over to the desk and picked up one of the papers that lay facedown. "Nevermind – here it is." And he handed it to her with an expectant look.

Dearka watched the exchange dumbly, unsure of exactly what was supposed to happen. 'Order of release' was a nice thing to hear, though. Very nice indeed.

The Catwoman seemed flustered, composure lost in the face of surprise. "Well, ah, this is...I swear I wasn't informed this morning, but you know how it is..."

She fell silent, and Dearka fidgeted as she stared at the note in her hands for a long moment, and began to shuffle papers furiously, dropping the rest as one came to the forefront.

He'd never forget that paper. It was marbled gray in a fancy pattern rather than the usual pristine whiteness of official documents, and he was sure he saw the flash of a gilded letterhead in the moment it caught the light. He knew what it was, and seeing it here nearly made him frown, though he took care to keep his face carefully neutral. What had his friends done?

No one said anything for a long few seconds, and then the soldier cleared his throat, prompting the Catwoman to hand Dearka the marbled paper with a disbelieving expression. He skimmed it, eyes going huge with shock as the information registered.

_By order of PLANT's Highest Council, former General-Unilateral-Neurolink-Dispersive-Autonomic-Maneuver Weapon pilot Dearka Elsman is hereby summoned, along with others of ZAFT's top forces, to report to his superiors for renewal of orders. _

_The entirety of the Council is aware of Dearka Elsman's supposed war crimes, but as no irrefutable evidence has been gathered and soldiers of his caliber are sorely needed in the frontlines, he is hereby granted an official pardon and absolved of these accusations._

Underneath the neat type were a handful of signatures and a scrawled address in not-unfamiliar handwriting. He had to raise an eyebrow when he saw Yzak's signature among the others instead of Ezaria's, puzzle pieces beginning to click into place in his mind.

"Well, if you're done, we'll be going now." A powerful hand gripped his shoulder and steered him to the door, the soldier chuckling coolly at Dearka's slightly stunned face. "Let's get you out of these handcuffs..."

Just like that, Dearka found himself stumbling out of the office in a daze. Free.

The soldier drove him to the address Yzak had written at the bottom of the paper, which he clutched like a lifeline the whole way, thoroughly ruining the lifesaving letterhead. If the other man noted the stiff set of his features or his uncharacteristic silence, he chose not to comment and focused on the street instead.

It didn't take them long to arrive, the black government-issue vehicle pulling up after a scant fifteen minutes in front of a sprawling block of apartments, nothing really different from where Dearka himself had grown up. He eyed the structure with more nervousness than he should have been feeling, wondering exactly what awaited him in one of those squat stacked rooms.

No one questioned him when he wandered around the (tastelessly furnished) narrow hallways, randomly glancing up at numbers as he passed. _316B_, it had said, and when he got there he found it to be a perfectly harmless-looking, ordinary door.

He decided to stand in front of it and stare. It didn't do anything, and at last he sighed and pressed the buzzer set beside the keycard slot.

The door opened before him almost immediately, and when he realized who was there in the doorway, barely six inches away from him, he didn't know what to say – stupid, when he'd spent so much thinking time on it in prison. Yzak just _looked _at him at though he was expecting something, and they stood like that, quiet for awhile.

At long last, Dearka grinned sheepishly, about to offer a comment on how Yzak looked in a Council uniform, but before he could get the words out, the world seemed to shift; suddenly his back was against the opposite wall, and there were strong hands gripping his arms and lips warm on his. Shocking. Exhilarating. Worth everything in the world.

The silver-haired teen pulled away abruptly, and seemed to become the person Dearka knew. "Well?" he snapped. "Are you going to come in or what?"

Dearka wasn't sure what he said in reply, focused on the tingle of warmth on his mouth, the only evidence of what had happened besides the look in Yzak's blue eyes.

_I missed you, _they said, and _welcome home._

_-end-_

* * *

_Authoress-ramble: And they lived happily ever after, in a future full of lemons...bahahah. I can't believe it's over so soon; I'm not used to writing short fics – or even finishing them! XD This whole thing was really, really fun to write, even at those times I kept going 'waah' and wanting to skip ahead and just write out that last scene...in fact, I got rather distracted and typed up about 3 ½ other stories too, which is why this took longer to arrive. Hope you guys liked it!_

..._and if anyone guesses who that soldier was, you get a cookie. XD I think you can trace the events of this fic to the OVA well enough. C&C, minna-san?_


End file.
